


Glow

by eirabach



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: CSSNS, Captain Swan Supernatural Summer, Drinking, F/M, Ghost!Emma Swan, Ghosts, Hauntings, Humour and Angst, Movie AU, Very AU, believe me, captain swan is my favourite romcom, humangst?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-06-30 18:53:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15757662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eirabach/pseuds/eirabach
Summary: Emma Swan always gets her man, and she's not about to let a little thing like death get in the way.(A 'Just Like Heaven' AU)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Captain Swan Supernatural Summer on tumblr, with beautiful artwork by seastarved and dedicated to my dear friend killiancygnus/travelsintimeandspace. Hope you enjoy!

She dreams of the ocean.

The skies are bright blue, and cartoon-fluffy clouds scud overhead as the ship skips over the waves with her at the bow. The wind catches at her hair and she laughs - a wild, bell-like sound she barely recognises - and spreads her arms wide.

Somewhere behind her, someone is calling her name.

Emma!

Emma?

“Emma? Emma!”

She sits bolt upright, the cheap plastic chair creaking alarmingly beneath her weight as she sways backwards. Her half eaten breakfast doughnut rolls sadly across the table and drops to the floor, and she scrubs at the smear of cinnamon frosting it’s left on her cheek.

“Sorry, what,” she mumbles, blinking grit from her eyes. “I was just - ”

“Snoring,” says her boss, lips twitching into a sneer. “So glad you could rejoin us.”

“Sorry,” Emma mutters again, “it won’t - it won’t happen again.”

Zelena lifts one perfectly manicured eyebrow over the file she’s holding out, Emma cringing inwardly as she realises that every person around the rickety old boardroom table is watching her with expressions that range from amused, to pitying, to - in Jefferson’s case - alarmingly hungry.

“Rough night?” he asks, with a lecherous sort of grin. “We could make it… rougher, if you like?”

Emma squeezes her hands into fists and forces her expression into a tight smile.

“Not in any way you’d enjoy, Jefferson. I might, though.”

Ruby scoffs into her hand, covering it up with a cough, and the two of them exchange a swift look. Ruby’s still in last night’s make-up too, but hers is still practically pristine, her lips still devil red as she quirks them briefly at Emma.

Emma’s carefully applied mascara, on the other hand, is smeared under her eyes and down her cheeks from hours spent waiting in the rain, her lipstick long since bled away.

It really had been a rough night.

Her mark had been a particularly nasty piece of work, skipping bail and leaving not only one well-meaning and heavily pregnant girlfriend to foot the bill, but two, and Emma had been warned in advance that he had form for getting nasty when things weren’t going his way.

He also, it seemed, had form for standing up dates. In the rain.

And possibly Varsity Level Track and Field skills.

She could imagine better starts to the day than dealing with Zelena and Jefferson after six hours of extensive wet-weather cross-country running and twenty minutes sleep. She squirms in her seat, her shoulder aching still from where he’d attempted to wrench it from it’s socket before she’d finally managed to get the drop on him, and meets Zelena’s gaze with a glare of her own.

“I got the mark,didn’t I?” she says. “I just didn’t get much sleep.”

“I hope you enjoyed your little cat nap, then,” says Zelena, sliding the file over to Emma. “Because here’s the next one.”

Emma’s brow furrows as she looks at the golden embossed motif on the front of the file, the heavy cardstock, the six figure reward for bringing this guy in.

Somebody must have been a really, really naughty boy.

“The cops increased their budget lately?”

“Not for the police,” Zelena says smugly, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms. “This is on behalf of a private client.”

“Hey.” Emma drops the file on the table and shakes her head sharply. “We do bailsbonds, not PI work.”

Zelena hums, her eyes going wide. “Is that what it says on my door? Well I never.”

“You don’t have a door,” Emma mutters, but Zelena is leaning over the table now, her eyes sharp, and Emma is forcibly reminded that although she’s good at her job - great, even - Zelena is still very much the boss.

“And you don’t have a choice,” she hisses. “Unless you think I should give the mark to someone else?”

Out of the corner of her eye she sees both Ruby and Jefferson sit up a little straighter, and her eyes drift back down to the file.

She doesn’t know who Mr Gold is, and she has no idea what he wants with the dark-haired man in the grainy CCTV photo - this Killian Jones - but she knows how much money is left for the month. She knows Henry went to school this morning in jeans a half inch too short.

And it’s six figures. Six.

“No,” she says, closing the file and resting her hands on top of it. “I’ve got this.”

\--

The office - such as it is - isn’t the sort of place Emma likes to spend much of her time, even at the best of times which, frankly, this sort of isn’t. Ruby’s nice, outgoing enough to spring the honey traps Emma wouldn’t dare and a personable sort of person to have around if you didn’t mind the constant sound of gum smacking, but even she isn’t a generous enough soul to congratulate Emma on being handed a case that might make her rich. And Jefferson had looked ready to murder her before she’d slipped past the splintered remains of what had once been Zelena’s door and settled herself into the only comfy chair in the place - an elderly padded desk chair reserved for clients that always smells faintly of despair.

Zelena could afford to replace it, of course. Emma thinks she just rather likes the scent.

“All right,” she says, crossing her legs and trying not to wince as her knees protest. “Spill.”

Zelena taps her nails on her desk and tosses her hair over her shoulder.

“Afraid I don’t know what you mean,” she says with suspiciously wide eyes. “Is there a problem?”

“You tell me,” Emma snaps back, the file toht between her fingers. “Since when do we take on private clients - since when do private clients want to hire us?” She gestures to the door, it’s smashed glass panel and missing edges a testament to the sort of review Oz Bail Bonds has received in the past. “Something’s up.”

For a moment Zelena’s sneer drops, her fingers still, the confidence she wears like her knock-off suit flickering briefly out of existence.

“That’s none of your business,” she says, eyes narrowing. “Just do your job, Swan.”

“I will,” Emma snaps, “but not if - I have Henry to worry about you know.”

Zelena rolls her eyes in the particularly dismissive manner she reserves for the rare occasions her staff dare to remind her that they have lives outside of the office walls.

“Best make sure you don’t fail, then.” She gesturs to the door, her contribution clearly finished. “Although,” she says, “since you’re here…” She reaches into her desk drawer and removes one of the thin, buff coloured files preferred by Portland PD. Clipped to the front is a picture of a red-faced, piggy-eyed man, with slicked back black hair and a smile even a mother would cringe at. “Jefferson didn’t quite bring home the bacon on this one, so to speak. Would you mind?”

Zelena smiles her reptilian smile and Emma thinks of her bed, the three day old take out festering in the fridge. She thinks of Henry’s face as he waits for her to collect him from school only to see Mary Margaret turn up again.

“Would it matter if I did?”

Zelena’s smile almost reaches her eyes.

“Not in the least.”

—

It hadn’t always been like this of course.

It’s sort of surreal this half-life of hers, lived in the shadows of other people’s mistakes. She works mainly when the streets are dark and empty, sleeping the daylight away as best she can in an old recliner swiped from a skip, her son’s third-hand xbox blaring brightly away just beyond the edge of her consciousness. She’s tired, always, and never quite as well off as she ought to be for the hours she puts in - the stain of Zelena’s fingerprints over every pay cheque - but on balance, it’s alright.

It used to be far, far worse.

At least she was sleeping her car voluntarily nowadays. Not like those early days before, cold and desperate, she’d thrown herself on the mercy of the only friend she could remember having, her worst best mistake wailing in her arms and her prison issue clothes hanging off too thin shoulders.

And Mary Margaret had let her in.

And let her in. And let her in.

Until their brief High School friendship had developed into something almost like family, almost just right.

She’s getting morbid, it’s getting late. The two things might be connected.

It’s been a depressingly long time since she’d backed the bug into the alleyway outside of the mark’s preferred drinking den, and she’d done nothing ever since but squint into the dark - nothing except fire off a quick text to Mary Margaret begging off school pick up and hoping she’d take mercy.

Again.

It’s a theme, of sorts.

(And If she hadn’t answered Mary Margaret’s follow up call, well. She can’t afford to get distracted on a job.

She can’t afford for Mary Margaret to finally say no.)

From somewhere under the pile of cheeseburger wrappers in her passenger footwell she hears the buzz of her phone and winces.

She sort of should have, maybe, called Mary Margaret back.

No time for that now though. At the end of the alleyway she sees the shadow of a man leaving the bar, the tell-tale lurching gait of the heavy drinker giving her time to slip out of the bug, gun in hand, before he’s able to disappear into the shadows.

This is always the riskiest part - the choice. Does she shout, ensuring the guy currently emptying his guts against a dumpster is the one she’s after but possibly setting herself up for another late night cross country session? Or does she lurk in the dark like some sort of comic book vigilante, creeping along with her back to the damp alleyway walls and hope that she’s able to get the drop on him?

(Her knees hurt. Decision made.)

She inches towards the dark figure, wrinkling her nose up as he retches into the gutter, the street lights casting a yellow halo around his unruly hair. He’s mumbling to himself as he wipes his mouth on his sleeve, some sort of half conversation with the demons in his own head, and Emma slides her gun back into her belt. She’s not going to need it.

Somehow, she gets the impression that if she breathes too hard at this one he’ll drop like a leaf.

“Hey,” she says softly, stepping into the glow of the light, her hands open at her sides. “I think you ought to come with me”

He pauses his mumbling, his shoulders heaving slightly from the effort of being sick, and she sees the way his right hand tightens on the edge of the dumpster.

There’s a crack - thunder that isn’t  - a sharp, wet, blooming pain in her stomach. Screeching rubber and her own pulse harsh in her ears as she stumbles forward, grabbing at the edge of the drunk’s jacket as she falls.

She gasps. Henry’s name garbled in blood. Her phone’s in her car. She needs to tell this guy… he needs to tell Henry… she needs…

Help.

He turns, a flash of blue against white, and everything goes dark.

\---

“I don’t know what you expected,” Regina mutters, armed folded across her chest. “Anything other than twenty five to life and I’ve have thought you’d jump at it.”

Killian Jones peers past her with narrowed eyes, his nose wrinkling slightly as the smell of the drains drifts on the wind from the battered building before them. Somewhere, a dog howls.

“You may have missed the point of my turning evidence,” he mutters. “I was trying to avoid a life in a four by six cell in the company of a man who tattoos his own eyeballs.” He nods up at the building. “Not pay $700 a month for the privilege.”  

“$900,” Regina says, shrugging her shoulders as his jaw drops. “What? You have terrible references.”

“You’re my reference!”

“Were you always this sulky, or is this a consequence of your new leaf?” she says, curling her lips and her fingers around the words. “Not quite working out how you’d planned?”

Killian scowls and rocks back on his heels.

“Bit rich coming from you, love. Tell me, how many of your dirty little secrets has your mother hushed up?”

It’s Regina’s turn to mutter now, her perfectly groomed brows pulled low.

“Not half as many as I have of hers, as well you know.”

He does know.

Men like him don’t survive being, well, men like him, without being well aware of the seedier aspects of life - of the lies and the bribes and the bullets that it takes to keep money flowing where it oughtn’t and your blood still in your veins. Mostly, at least.

Which is probably why this is such a fucking horrible idea. Regina clearly thinks it’s a fucking horrible idea, anyway.

“This is a horrible idea,” she says in that obnoxious way she’s had since childhood of dragging up the slightest weakness and exposing it to the world. It’s what makes her a good lawyer. It’s what makes her better at pretending than he is. “Do you honestly believe this is going to work out? You turn on Gold and what - he just lets you live out your days in Portland peaceably?”

“I don’t think he’s going to let me do anything,” Killian mumbles, and for a moment he gets a flash of wide, frightened eyes and the rich, thick pulse of blood. “I don’t require permission. Just a place to live. So if you don’t mind?”

Regina checks her watch, tapping her nail against the glass face and sighing loudly.

“I suppose there’s time to get over to the dockside before the offices close - there’s an apartment there about a bar that will be right up your street.”

“No.”

“Sorry?”

“Not the docks.”

For the first time in her life, probably, Regina just stares at him, her mouth open. Speechless.

“I’m done with that.”

“You’re done with what?”

Killian shakes his head and scuffs the toe of his boots through the sidewalk dust.

“It’s supposed to be a fresh start,” he mumbles.

Regina stares at him, her lips pursed.

“You really have changed, haven’t you?”

“No need to sound so shocked. If you can do it -“

“All right, all right.” Regina tosses her head back to try and cover for the furtive glance she throws over her shoulder. “Ixnay on the… history. Okay?”

He smiles, a sly, almost furtive sort of thing.

“Bit rich coming from you, no?”

Regina’s lips curl back over her teeth and his smile stretches into a full blown smirk.

“No wonder Gold wants you dead,” she mutters. “I want you dead. If you don’t find an apartment soon you’ll be dead, so if you could just -“

There’s a sudden gust of wind that blows Regina’s hair over her face, dark strands sticking to her lipstick and stopping her in her tracks. Killian takes the opportunity to spin on his heel and start walking away, but something catches beneath his boot.

Crumpled pink copier paper, the words that pale blue grey smudge that comes from being the last of a long print run on an overworked machine.

Apartment to Let.

He picks it up, pinching it between two fingers and waving it in Regina’s face like a child who found ten bucks under the bleachers.

“Someone’s looking out for me,” he says. “Wouldn’t you say?”

Regina snatches the flyer from him, examining it with a crease between her brows.

“Unlikely.”

“And yet.”

She sighs, reaching for her phone.

“It’s too cheap you know. I bet it’s got rats. Crawling with them. Or cursed.”

Killian bounces slightly on his toes. It’s bitterly cold in the sharp wind and he’s been standing in the open longer than he’d like.

The walls have eyes and the walls have ears, but at least they block out the wind.

“Well then,” he says, pushing his fists deeper into his pocket. “Sounds perfect.”

—-

It’s uncanny, really. An apartment held in time, plates on the drainer, a golden hair on a rumpled pillow. The curtains are all half drawn, and in the low light the shadows seem to reach out into the room and pluck at the ground beneath their feet.

Cursed.

“Creepy.” Regina’s mouth twists into a sneer as she runs a finger over the TV, the standby light glowing weakly through the layer of dust. “It’s hardly a showhome, is it.”

Killian hums noncommittally, and drops down onto the battered old leather sofa, winging his legs onto the arm and tucking his wrists behind his head.

“Suits me though, don’t you think?”

“Dark, creepy, and cheap. Close enough,” mutters Regina, wiping her hand down the front of her coat. “Apparently it’s some sort of Estate situation. The family just want someone in to pay the bills and keep the pipes running while they sort out the particulars. They won’t be checking in. Distressing, apparently.”

She speaks with the slightly sour expression of someone for whom the grief of others is a foreign and somewhat disturbing concept, as though Killian’s would-be landlords might descend from the ceiling weeping and wailing at any moment and smear cheap mascara on her cashmere scarf.

Empathy was never her strong point.

“Are you sure about this?” she asks him again now, her brows pinched tightly as she takes a final look around.

For now, Killian just hums again and digs his heels into the leather.

“This is the one,” he says. “This is the one.”

—

It takes four hours for Regina to organise bonds and fake a few references. Five for him to collect his single suitcase from the safe house. Six until he’s so drunk he can’t stand.

He sprawls against the sofa, cheek pressed against the soft woollen blanket, and watches the flickering reflection television in his empty bottle.

Even distorted by drink and the curve of the glass she’s still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Her laugh echoes through the room and it makes him want to scream. He doesn’t, of course. He drinks instead. It’s what he does now.

That’s what Regina had told him, that first night in the safe house when his blood had been high and his nerves strung to breaking point. She’d perched primly on the edge of a government issue grey velour armchair and snapped open her briefcase to reveal a decent bottle of rum and two cut glass tumblers.

“More drinking, less thinking,” she’d said as he’d paced the floor, his head throbbing and his heart shattered. “You’ve the rest of your life to regret, Jones. It’s what you do now. Trust me.”

As much as he’d never give her the satisfaction of admitting it, she’d been right.

He’d never thought, before. Not beyond the next deal, next meal, the next moment in a life always lived precariously and purposefully close to the edge. He’d only had himself to care about, and he’d done precious little of that.

And then he’d met her and everything should have changed, and - hadn’t.

In his most sober moments the guilt rises, sour and sickening at the back of his throat, and the memory of Milah’s laugh warps and cracks until it becomes a wild accusation, echoing until it’s nothing but the mad cackle of the man who’d killed her.

So he drinks, and on the screen Milah spins, her white dress flaring around her as she falls laughing into the arms of a man who shares his face.

(He drinks, and there’s no one there to see him cry.)

\---

Emma doesn’t remember drinking, doesn’t remember anything really after leaving work, but somebody somewhere must have slipped her something stronger than Mary Margaret’s Labor Day punch.

Her vision isn’t quite right - everything blurring white at the edges and drifting in and out of focus. Her perspective is off, things seem to be both right at hand and at the other side of the room simultaneously and maybe it’s a migraine but it’s like nothing she’s ever experienced before.

That, or she’s gone crazy.

It’s the only explanation for why she hasn’t called half the precinct on the bum sleeping on her couch.

He makes eye contact with her in the reflection of her tv and she opens her mouth to -

And light is creeping through the closed blinds and her couch is empty and how is it morning already?

Emma rubs at her temples and shakes her head sharply. A dream. It was just a dream. A dream she should probably be having in bed.

Except obviously she can’t. Because there’s a man in her bed. A dream man.

Not like that of course because sure he’s pretty but he’s also broken in to her house and - she pats frantically at her waist - where the hell is her gun?!

He stirs and Emma takes an involuntary step back, eyes darting frantically about as she searches for the baseball bat she knows Henry left lying around and -

Oh God. Oh God, Henry.

The man opens his eyes and their blue on white, a burning, searing -

Henry.

—-

Killian wakes face down on the blanket, the ribbon tickling his nose, to find the dvd menu screen playing the first five bars of Milah’s favourite cheesy love song on an infinite loop and almost guaranteeing that his new neighbors won’t be feeling amenable to lending him any coffee for the hangover he can feel brewing behind his eyes.

He peels himself off the sofa and reaches rather shakily for the remote. It’s been a while since he’s drunk quite this heavily - the cops who watched the safe house didn’t look too kindly on his worst excesses - so he takes a moment to regain his equilibrium, staring at his haggard reflection in the now blank screen and pressing his fingers into the hollows beneath his eyes.

At first he thinks it’s that pressure the does it, blinks twice but nothing changes.

There’s a woman.

She’s blonde, her hair falling in waves around her face, and wide eyed as she stands behind Killian’s own reflection. He can see her white knuckled grip on the sofa either side of his shoulders, and the moment shock turns to rage, her face contorting in fury.

He whips his head around, platitudes slow to come to rum sodden lips, and -

She’s gone.

 


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes slowly, eyes creaking open against his will as an entire flock of songbirds bellow at his window.

 

“Wonderful,” he mutters, squinting at the clock beside the bed. 6:34. “Ideal.”

 

He blinks blearily at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, letting the steam from the shower blur the edges of his haggard expression, and scrubbs a hand over his too long beard.

 

“The fucking state of you,” he mutters. “What the hell would Liam say.”

 

_ Fuck all, he’s dead,  _ supplies his internal monologue.  _ Dead people don’t judge _ .

 

“You look like shit.”

 

He yelps, snatching a towel from the rail and scrabbles to cover himself from the frosty glare of the woman he thought he’d dreamt: blonde and beautiful and absolutely not supposed to be in his bathroom.

 

“What the fuck?!” he squeaks, mortified, as her eyes flick down his chest to the ragged edge of his threadbare towel. “Get out!”

 

Her jaw drops, and she makes a choked sort of gasping sound that has him clutch his towel a little closer for the sake of his dignity.

 

“This is  _ my  _ house!” she growls, hands settling firmly on her hips. “That’s  _ my  _ toothpaste!”

 

He splutters a little bit, struggling to regain his composure when he’s naked and she’s - well. There.

 

And now he thinks about it, when did he buy the stripy toothpaste?

 

He tries not to think about it at all.

 

“ _ Your _ house?” He scoffs as well as any naked man faces with a furious woman would dare. “I don’t think so love.”

 

The woman looks him up and down and sneers. It doesn’t improve his towel situation.

 

“Not your love, not your house, how the hell did -“ She waves her arms in the air and shakes her head. “No. I’m not having this conversation with a figment, goodbye.”

 

She points to the bathroom door. He settles his weight against the edge of the sink.

 

“I’m not the figment,  _ you’re  _ the figment! I’m not going anywhere.”

 

“I live here!” 

 

“You do  _ not! _ ”

 

She shakes her head again, but this time it seems to be in exasperation.

 

“Listen up, buddy, I know you were drunk last night.  I’m sorry you’re having a rough time, I’ve been there I get it,  but that’s  _ no excuse _ for breaking and entering - get yourself together and get -”

 

She reaches forward, as though she’s decided to just bodily remove him and be done with it, but before her hand makes contact with his shoulder -

 

He’s alone with his gooseflesh and the hiss of the still running faucet. The bathroom door still shut firm.

 

He fumbles behind himself to turn off the water before ripping open the door and half throwing himself into the hallway. She can’t have gone anywhere he’d have seen her wouldn’t he? Surely. Surely. The blackouts haven’t been this bad for months but -

 

“Hello?”

 

His voice echoes back at him from the hallway. From the kitchen he hears the low thrum of the refrigerator, the click of the keurig.

 

“Hello?”

 

Beyond that only silence and the sound of his too-fast breathing.

 

He drops his towel, turns, examines his pale, wide eyed reflection. Behind him the apartment waits. Empty.

 

“I need a drink.”

 

—-

 

Just because a bar opens at 10am doesn’t mean they expect patronage it seems. The young girl on the early shift had eyed Killian’s stumbling entrance with something bordering on disgust, her avocado toast held meaningfully aloft in his direction when he’d dropped a handful of change on the counter with shaking hands.

 

His hands still shake now, even after two shots of top shelf rum, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the wood as he desperately tries to hide it.

 

It doesn’t work.

 

“I’m pretty sure joining you for liquor before noon is not in my remit,” Robin says mildly, sipping at his soda and lime. “Rather the opposite in fact.”

 

“If you’d had the night I’ve had you’d have backed up all twelve bloody steps as well.”

 

“You say that like this is unusual behaviour,” Robin says, and lays a hand on Killian’s frantic one. “No excuses, remember?”

 

“I’m not - this isn’t one of those things you can fix Locksley. It isn’t my emotional state that’s the problem here.”

 

“Sure, sure,” Robin smiles placatingly and a large, and until recently dormant, part of Killian wonders what it would feel like to put his fist right through it. “Talk me through it, then. Why am I here?”

 

“I called you, did you forget?”

 

“Because?”

 

Killian groans, rolling his empty glass between his fingers.

 

“You’ll think I’ve gone mad.”

 

“Again?” Robin grins, but leans in a little closer, surreptitiously side eyeing the barmaid as he does so. “Come on. You can tell me anything, you know that.”

 

It’s true that there’s very little of his sordid past that Robin hasn’t dragged out of him over the past two years. Intervention after intervention, night after night holed up in the dark of Regina’s safe room with a gun and a bottle of Pepsi when all he’d craved was rum and the ammunition Robin would keep in his pockets.

 

So he tells him.

 

“ - and for god’s sake don’t tell Regina.”

 

Robin leans back with a low whistle.

 

“Well that’s certainly an interesting tale.”

 

“There’s an angry murderous blonde in my apartment. Interesting doesn’t cover it.”

 

“Not for the first time, either.”

 

Killian scowls. “They’re not usually dead.”

 

“Well as the husband of your lawyer I’m both relieved and somewhat worried you felt the need to qualify that statement.”

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

“Killian.” Robin leans forward, brow furrowed in concert, and Killian feels his heart sink. “How much have you been drinking lately?”

 

Killian can’t quite meet his eyes, scrubbing his hand over his face, and he cant exactly deny it. Not when it’s not even 10am and he’s halfway through his third glass.

 

“Enough. Too much, I expect. But I’m not imagining her, Rob. She  _ spoke  _ to me.”

 

“Did she tell you to change your ways by Christmas Day or you’ll end up unloved and pickled?”

 

“Charming.” Killian lowers his voice slightly, aware of the barmaids eyes on the back of his head. “She wants me out of her home.”

 

“Her home?”

 

“That’s what she seems to think.” He shakes his head and laughs bitterly. “You don’t believe me.”

 

“Do you find this tale particuarly believeable?”

 

“Well, no. No, but -”

 

“Killian.” Robin reaches over and gently takes the glass from his hand, his face softening into that oh so sympathetic expression that Killian has spent most of the last two years railing against. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

 

\---

 

He lets the door creak close behind him, almost holding his breath as he peers down the corridor leading to the living room and then back toward the bedroom.

 

“No such thing,” he reminds himself. “No such thing.”

 

“ _ You! _ ”

 

The shriek seems to echo around the apartment followed by a gust of wind that sends Killian flailing back against the front door only for her to appear directly in front of him, her beautiful face screwed up in fury and her fist half an inch from his nose.

 

“Oh bloody  _ hell _ !”

 

“What are you doing back here?!” she hisses. Killian shakes his head.

 

“Losing my mind entirely it would seem. Do excuse me, if I’m to go completely mad I’d prefer to do it in the comfort of my bed.”

 

“My bed,” she spits, and without meaning to he feels the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

 

“I’m flattered,” he says, “but that’s a rather complicated level of self-pleasure wouldn’t you agree?”

Her jaw drops, eyes narrow, and he wonders what it says about him that his subconscious has seen fit to torture him with such a beautiful woman who looks at him with such disgust.

 

“You’re gross,” she says. “Get out.”

 

“Not likely.” He moves along the wall and makes to head toward the bedroom. “Since you’re a figment of my twisted imagination I’m sure you’re well aware of how poorly I take orders.”

 

“I’m calling the cops,” she spits, following him into the bedroom, “you’re insane.”

 

“Clearly.” Killian groans, flopping onto the covers and throwing his arm over his eyes. “But carry on, be my guest. I can’t imagine you’ll have much success.”

 

“And what exactly is  _ that _ meant to mean? I have contacts you know.”

 

“Oh do you now,” mumbles Killian. “I’ve heard that before.”

 

“I do, I -“ she pauses, brow crinkling as though she’s just realised she’s left the gas on. “I do.”

 

“Of course, love.” He waves vaguely at her. “Of course. Please inform my hypothalamus that I’m just as fucked as usually will you, and be on your way.”

 

“Are you  _ drunk _ ?”

 

He wriggles his brows at her, strangely delighted by the way her mouth twitches when he does.

 

“Darling I’m always drunk.”

 

She rolls her eyes so hard he practically hears them.

 

“All right, that’s enough. You’ve had your chance.”

 

She reaches round him for the phone attached to the hallway wall.

 

Stops.

 

The two of them stare together, mouths open in disbelief, as her hand passes straight through the handset as though it were made of air.

 

Killian rubs his eyes, hard, but nothing changes.

 

She turns her hand again and again, fingers flexing against edges she can’t touch. She’s trembling, and part of him wishes he could soothe her but his own hands won’t seem to stop shaking. She looks up at him, green eyes wide.

 

“What.” she says, “The. Fuck.”

 

“Good question,” he manages, as she snatched her hand away from the phone and cradles it to her chest. “Believe me yet?”

 

“I’m not a figment,” she says, but there’s no relief in her voice. “I’m not.”

 

“What’s the alternative?” He barks out a bitter sort of laugh. “Everyone knows there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

 

She bites her lip, staring down at her hand, then looks up at him, mouth open as if to speak and -

 

Alone again. 

 

At the far end of the hallway a bulb flickers, and dies.

 

—-

 

He should probably leave. That’s what he always mutters to the heroines of the horror movies Robin makes him watch: get out now. No good will come of another night in that place. Run. Run and never return.

 

So much of his own life has been a horror movie, and he the foolish anti hero waving a flickering flashlight in the faces of the monsters, that it’s hardly surprising he doesn’t take his own advice.

 

Instead, he cooks enough for two and doesn’t really examine why.

 

He flicks the remnants of the salt over his left shoulder, and, for good measure, scatters a handful around his feet.

 

“Nice try Buffy, but it’s going to take more than that to get rid of me.”

 

She’s sharp again, sharp voice and sharp elbows where her arms are folded across her chest, and he’s oddly relieved. 

 

Better an angry ghost than a broken hearted one, he supposes. He’s enough angst of his own to be getting on with. So he smiles.

 

“Should I try a stake?”

 

He can see her reflection in the copper bottomed pans, or he might be inclined to try. She leans forward, nose wrinkling as she examines his dinner, and he tenses against the cold.

 

“Your cooking ought to do it. What  _ is  _ that?”

 

“Bolubaisse.”

 

“Bless you.”

 

He spoons a portion into one of the mismatched bowls and gives her a closed lip smile. 

 

“Just as well I won’t be asking you to join me for dinner then. If you could just pop off to wherever it is you go…” he waves the spoon at her and lifts an eyebrow. The oversized portion bubbles judgementally at the lie.

 

She glares at him for a moment, but it’s not as harsh as normal and he feels a twinge of regret. 

 

“Would if I could,” she mutters. Then, louder and a little too bright. “What’s your name?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Your name. I figure if you’re insisting on staying here -“

 

“I’m contractually obliged to stay here.”

 

“- then you could at least tell me your name.”

 

He stops stirring, dropping the spoon in the pan with a clang, and turns to face her.

 

“You first.”

 

Months he’s been moving from sofa to bedsit to haunted apartment. Months and months of shady hire cars and furtive exchanges of money in quiet alleys. Months since he’s shared his real name with anyone who hasn’t had his casebook in their briefcase, stamped and sealed and secured.

 

(And he doubts Robert Gold controls the dead, but he’s learning not to take the chance.)

 

They glare at each other for a few moments, and it amazes him the way her eyes flash and her cheeks flush. Like she’s  _ real _ . Alive.

 

It’s been months since he’s told anyone his real name, but now he finds he wants to.

 

“All right,” she says eventually. “I’ll bite.”

 

(It’s been months too since he might have met that comment with a smirk, a quip, a promise for later.

 

Years.)

 

He lifts an eyebrow when she hesitates, and he wonders if this is the moment his brain finally gives up on the charade - if it can create her, flirt with her, fight with her, but not name her.

 

“Well?”

 

Her mouth moves, brows furrowed.

 

“Swan?” she asks. His other eyebrow goes up.

 

“You sound uncertain.”

 

“Sounds like a fake name,” she says, and her nose wrinkles in distaste. “Don’t you think?”

 

“I wouldn’t know,” he lies. “You tell me.”

 

“You’re obnoxious.”

 

“So I hear.”

 

She -  _ Swan -  _ huffs out a long suffering sort of breath and he smiles despite himself.

 

“It’s not funny,” she mumbles, rubbing at her temples, “I can’t -“ she shakes her head and he’s shocked to see tears glistening in her eyes. “What’s the  _ matter _ with me?”

 

“Well,” he says, mouth running away with him, “you are dead.”

 

He regrets it immediately - before her face crumples or her back is turned - the callous simplicity of the words tasting wrong in his tongue. He can’t apologise quickly enough but she’s already gone - a flash of gold and red down the corridor toward the door and he thinks for a moment he might have actually driven her away. Then she stops by the closed door to the spare bedroom. Stops. Shudders. Walks straight through.

 

And just like every heroine in every horror movie, he follows.

 

\---

 

There’s no such thing as ghosts. Emma knows this, has always known it, has always been terribly, painfully, aware of the real terrors that go bump in the night, the ones whom no sage or priest could banish.

 

But now she’s standing in Henry’s bedroom, and ghosts are all she can think about.

 

The bed is made up neatly, the curtains pulled straight, and if that wasn’t strange enough the floor is clear of pencils and scraps of paper. There are no lego blocks to stand on. No headless Stomtroopers poking out from under the bed. No festering socks or stained mugs.

 

It’s pristine.

 

Silent.

 

Uncanny.

 

Haunted.

 

The floorboards creak behind her, and she blinks, hard.

 

“Please,” she hisses through clenched teeth. “I don’t know what your game is. I don’t know what you’re trying to do. But just  _ please _ . Tell me what you’ve done with Henry’s things.”

 

She hears the stranger sigh, but doesn’t turn round.  _ Won’t  _ turn around. Not until she can stop the tears from running down her cheeks.

 

She won’t give him the satisfaction. She  _ won’t _ .

 

“Who’s Henry?”

 

“My - “  _ world. My whole world. _ “My son.”

 

His intake of breath is so sharp it stirs the hairs on the back of her neck.

 

“I’m sorry. Truly.”

 

“What’s  _ happened _ to me!”

 

“You don’t remember?”

 

“I don’t -” she casts her mind back as far as she can, but everything seems a little dark, a little hazy. There’s a woman with a snake’s smile and a car the colour of sunshine and - she’d had a job, hadn’t she? She’d had a job. “I was at work?” She spins to face him. “What  _ happened _ ?”

 

“I don’t know,” he says, and he’s closer than she’d thought he’d be. Kinder. Sharp blue eyes softened in pity and god she hates pity. Hates it. But she’s scared, so scared, and where’s Henry and why doesn’t she  _ know _ \- he smiles, a gentle little thing. “Killian. My name’s Killian.”

 

And she knows that, at least. And it shouldn’t matter.

 

But as strange as her life has become, perhaps the strangest thing of all is that it does.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s not often he manages to strike Regina speechless - this might only be the second time in fact - and he reckons that if he were to ask her, right this moment, whether she’d been more shocked when he told her he was going straight or now she would struggle to choose.

 

“Close your mouth, your majesty,” he mutters, pushing her coffee cup into her hand. “Your veneers are showing.”

 

“I don’t have veneers, I have a dental plan. It’s called health insurance, Jones. I hear they even offer psychological help.”

 

“Is that a suggestion?”

 

“Ghosts.” Regina says, rather in the same disgusted way Liam might once have said  _ Airforce _ . “Ghosts.”

 

“Actually, just the one ghost,” Killian says, and takes a swig of his own drink. “It’s not an infestation, just a little - unnerving.”

 

“Unnerving.” Regina says. Killian lifts an eyebrow.

 

“Is there an echo? I’m simply asking you to contact the landlords. Perhaps they can shed some light on the situation.”

 

Regina’s mouth thins - a warning sign he’s very used to by now - and she shakes her head.

 

“And ask what? If they’ve had the place exorcised lately? This is nonsensical, Jones.”

 

“Aye that it is. Doesn’t make it any less true.”

 

“And say that it is,” she continues, “I’m your lawyer. What exactly do you expect me to do about it? Issue a Cease and Desist to the deceased?”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

 

“Oh, I’m ridiculous?” Regina learns in over the kitchen table and speaks through gritted teeth. “Do you have  _ any  _ idea what I’m going through for you right now? Any idea at all? I’m spending every hour god sends chasing down this city’s  _ useless _ police department - “

 

“Pardon?”

 

She sits back and folds her arms over her chest.,

 

“Nevermind.”

 

Killian copies her pose.

 

“Nevermind? Certainly, love. It’s only my life at stake here. Why should I concern myself with something as minor as my own survival?”

 

“Well at least you know there’s an afterlife.”

 

“ _ Regina _ .”

 

“Fine!” 

 

She leans forward, looking from side to side as though checking for eavesdroppers in his own kitchen, and the back of his neck prickles.

 

“He’s on to you.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Gold of course!” she scoffs out a laugh. “Unless there’s another organised crime kingpin with a price on your head? Can’t say I’d be surprised.”

 

“I pick my battles,” Killian says, and Regina laughs - hard and bitter. 

 

“You do exactly the opposite, Jones. You’ve spent most of your adult life in and out of trouble, you’ve worked for some of the worst -”

 

“I never worked for them.”

 

“No,” Regina sneers. “No, that’s your schtick, isn’t it? You’re a  _ free man.  _ A moral  _ pirate _ . Don’t pretend you’re turning evidence against Gold for society's sake, Jones. You’re hardly Robin Hood.”

 

“A little rich coming from you, wouldn’t you say?” Killian grits out. “Tell me, exactly how pure and moralistic was  _ your _ life before your Robin arrived?”

 

“That’s different,” Regina mutters, folding her arms over her chest.

 

Killian raises a brow. “Is it?”

 

“I chose to be better - for Robin and for  _ myself.  _ You all you wanted was revenge. Milah -”

 

Killian stands, shoving his chair back from the table with a screech.

 

“That’s  _ enough _ . Don’t bring her into this.”

 

The corner of Regina’s mouth ticks up into a wry sort of smile.

 

“All right,” she says. “Let’s say you’ve truly changed your ways. Become some regular joe drunk who spends his nights alone and hallucinating.”

 

“You paint a beautiful picture.”

 

“The truth, you mean?”

 

Killian stands up straight, and gestures towards the door.

 

“If there’s nothing else -?”

 

Regina rolls her eyes, but stands and gathers up her bag.

 

“As your lawyer and the closest thing you have to a friend, Jones, I’m telling you. Forget whatever wild obsession you’ve developed with Discovery ghost shows and concentrate on keeping your head  _ down _ . It’s a month til court, and I dread to think how much it would cost to get this hideous carpet cleaned if in the meantime Gold decides to blow out what little brain you possess.”

 

“Love you too!” Killian calls after her as she pushes her way past and lets the door slam behind her.

 

“That sounded intense.”

 

Swan is leaning against the edge of the kitchen counter, the marble pattern just visible through her abdomen, and looking after Regina with a furrowed brow.

 

“Ah, so you were hovering. I suspected as much. You couldn’t have thrown a glass or two to prove my point?”

 

Swan rolls her eyes. “I don’t do party tricks.”

 

Killian grins. “Pity, it’s almost Halloween. We could make quite the team.”

 

“Unlikely.” She narrows her eyes at him. “Who’s Gold?”

 

“A man who by all rights should be in your place, love. But never you mind him. You have enough concern of your own I’ll wager.”

 

“She couldn’t see me, you know.” She places her hands on her stomach and looks at them, almost mystified. “I was stood right behind you the whole time and she just - looked right through me.”

 

“Well that could just be Regina, love. She isn’t known for her manners.”

 

“Do you really think I’m dead?”

 

His mouth works, but the words - the obvious words - just don’t seem to come out. She sighs, shakes her head, and the light catches at her hair like a halo.

 

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

 

“Have you recalled anything?” he asks, quickly enough that he hopes she’ll miss his lack of denial. “Anything at all about before - well, before?”

 

“Nothing,” she says. “It’s like… you ever wake up from a dream and you just can’t…” she waves her hands in front of her face. “It’s like it’s just there and then  _ poof _ . Gone.”

 

“Poof,” he says, lips tugging into a smile. “You create quite the image, love.”

 

“Yeah well. If I could magic my life back that would be great. Know any witches?”

 

“Well you’ve met Regina, but I don’t think memory spells are in her repertoire.” 

 

“You’re cute.”

 

“I try.”

 

There’s a pause. One just overlong moment where the two of them stare at each other, and Killian wonders, not for the first time, why anything so beautiful would be stuck on this earth. With him.

 

Maybe she isn’t the one who’s dead, after all. This looks more like his heaven than hers. Except -

 

“Who’s Milah?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

Emma nods down at his arm and he barely resists the urge to clutch at his forearm with his other hand.

 

“In the tattoo?”

 

He looks down at his shirtsleeve and then back up at her with ill disguised suspicion.

 

“How did you..?”

 

Swan huffs, and tosses her hair over her shoulder.

 

“I’ve seen you naked, remember?”

 

Killian smirks, and hopes she doesn’t notice the flush he can feel rising in his cheeks.

 

“I’m flattered you recall my nudity so clearly when you can’t recall your own name.”

 

“What can I say,” Swan drawls, one eyebrow quirked delightfully. “Weird naked man in my house.  Made an impression.”

 

“Weird?” Killian clutches at his chest. “You wound me.”

 

“I’ve tried,” mutters Swan. “Don’t change the subject.”

 

“The subject?” 

 

“Milah.”

 

“Ah.”

 

Swan nods. “Ah.”

 

“Nothing to tell,” Killian says, but his jaw is too tight for his smile to look natural and he can see the crease forming between Swan’s brows. “Or at least nothing to interest you.”

 

“You loved her, you mean.” Swan says, and it sounds almost sweet from her mouth. Almost like a happy memory. Entirely too past tense. “Did this Gold -“

 

“I  _ said  _ i don’t wish to discuss it.”

 

He hadn’t realised he’d stood until he finds himself glaring down at her, her green eyes fiery as she meets his stare with her own, and in that moment he knows,  _ knows _ , that he’s in more trouble here than he’d thought he could be. Far more.

 

There are worse things in life than death, after all. 

 

Even if in this case… it might still be somewhat involved.

 

And he’s going to have to do something about it, because he doesn’t know how many more times he can look into those eyes before he’s gone as mad as Regina thinks him to be.

 

“What do you want to discuss then,” Swan says, “I’ve got all eternity after all.”

 

“About that.” He whips out his phone and waves it slightly in front of her face. “I think I’ve got an idea.”

 

\---

 

Kill.

 

Kill.

 

Killian.

 

The word hammers through her already aching head, claws at the back of her stinging eyes. It matters. It  _ matters _ .

 

She can’t figure out why. 

 

She can’t even see.

 

She glares at Killian through the thick, acrid haze of incense and scuffs at the pentagram scrawled on the floor with the tip of her shoe. The chalk remains stubbornly untouched, of course.

 

“This is pointless,” she mutters. “What exactly are you expecting to happen?”

 

“Bright lights?” he says without looking up from his phone. “Choirs of angels?”

 

“Not very fucking likely,” Swan scoffs. “Do I look like the choir of angels type?”

 

He looks up then, and in the brief moment before his smirk appears, she sees something in his expression that makes her breath catch. Her breath that she shouldn’t have. When the following choking fit finally subsides, he drops his phone beside him with a sigh.

 

“This isn’t as effective as I might have hoped.”

 

“Because it’s stupid,” she splutters.”This is stupid.”

 

“Well forgive me, Swan, I’m not exactly an expert in the occult. And apparently nor is Google”

 

“Call Zak Bagans then,” Emma mutters. “I’ll give his spirit box a work out.”

 

Killian lifts an eyebrow. “I’m sure he’d be delighted.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Although you do rather have a point,” Killian says. “Perhaps an expert is what is required here.”

 

“I am  _ not _ going on tv.”

 

“Nor I, love, believe me.” Killian laughs shortly. “ _ Believe _ me. But perhaps there’s a somewhat more subtle way of accessing the help you require?”

 

“Ghostbusters?”

 

“A somewhat unusual definition of subtle.”

 

“Fine.” Emma folds her arms over her chest and scowls. “What do you suggest?”

 

Killian picks up his phone and winks.

 

“Okay google, find me the nearest paranormal enthusiast.”

 

\--

 

It’s not quite Barnes and Noble.

 

From the outside the bookshop looks like a place out of time, the thick glass of the leaded windows warped with age and reflecting an image of himself that he barely recognises. Which was rather the point, of course, but he wasn’t expecting to feel quite as uncomfortable in his own skin as he does. The door creaks open like a hammer horror prop, and the wooden boards at the threshold creak beneath his feet.

 

From behind the dark wood counter, a young lady with dark hair and large eyes looks up at him with something like alarm.

 

“Atmospheric,” he says by way of greeting. “I assume I’m in the right place?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“I hear,” he says, “that the proprietor of this shop is somewhat of an expert on… unusual matters.”

 

“It’s been said before, yes,” she says with a note of caution. 

 

“Then perhaps you could be of assistance?”

 

“Rather depends on the usual matters,” she says, and Killian holds back a wince. Even here, in this musty old store full of mustier, older books, he feels more than a little ridiculous saying the words.

 

“Paranormal matters. A haunting, in fact.”

 

“Really.”

 

“You sound surprised,” says Killian. “Are you unaware that you run a store that holds the third highest google listing for occult and psychic paraphernalia?”

 

The young woman looks at him for a long, excruciating moment. 

 

“You don’t look the type,” she says, finally. Killian tugs uncomfortably at the bottom of his beige fisherman’s sweater and pushes his glasses up his nose.

 

“Dark horse,” he says, and smiles. “Truly, I’d appreciate the help.”

 

“Well,” she says, her nose wrinkling, “okay.”

 

\---

 

Her name’s Belle, and she’s very sweet, if a little unusual in her prelications. He has met many many people through the years - good and bad, though mainly bad - but never has he met someone who can discuss demonic possession in such a straightforward and softly spoken manner.

 

“I don’t think she’s a demon.”

 

Belle shakes her head in that gently pitying manner that the very intelligent use when dealing with the very stupid.

 

“That’s exactly what demons want you to think.”

 

“No, but truly - “

 

“All right.”

 

Belle leans back in her office chair. The store itself is locked now, and Killian has been invited back into her inner sanctum - a place no less full of books but considerably brighter and less dusty than the shopfloor.

 

_ People like the aesthetic _ , she’d told him apologetically as he’d sneezed his way through the first tower of books she’d carried through.  _ Personally I prefer Pledge _ .

 

“I can’t say I’ve ever heard of a haunting like this before. Normally you get sporadic acitvity. Sounds, mainly. Shadows. You say she acknowledges you?”

 

“We talk,” Killian says, and smiles. “My charms don’t work on her quite as well as I’d like.”

 

“I can’t imagine why,” says Belle drolly. “But that - that’s almost unheard of. This whole story seems - incredible.”

 

“Believe me, I’m well aware.”

 

“Well then.” Belle stands so swiftly that Killian almost pushes his chair over in his haste to follow. 

 

“Well?”

 

Belle smiles at him, and throws her cape over her shoulders.

 

“This I’ve got to see.”

 

—-

 

They traipse back to his - to Swan’s - apartment in the gathering dusk, and Killian fights the urge to look back at the headlights he knows are over his shoulder, to reach for a gun he no longer carries when he hears somewhere in the distance the squeal of tyres.

 

Regina’s face flits across his mind’s eye. The way she’d been a little paler this morning, her lipstick a little less perfectly applied, and he’s glad that Belle is half jogging in her enthusiasm because the more the shadows lengthen the more he begins to think he’s made a terrible mistake.

 

He knows he’s taking a risk allowing Belle - allowing  _ anyone _ \- back to the apartment. After all it’s not like Gold doesn’t have contacts in the strangest places. Back when Killian had first met him he’d had his claws in pies as diverse as fine art and human trafficking. It certainly wouldn’t be beyond him to have an interest in life after death. To have contacts.

 

Belle smiles her sweet smile at him as he takes her cape, and he tries very hard to shove his suspicious nature to the back of his mind.

 

_ For Swan _ , he tells himself.  _ To help Swan. _

 

“What a beautiful apartment,” Belle says, eyes wide and almost uncannily honest as she takes in the few trinkets that someone - that Swan, he supposed - had collected over the years. “Very homely.”

 

“I’m lead to believe that that’s not quite a compliment in this country,” Killian says, but he still smiles. “But I shall take it as one.”

 

“You should,” Belle says, and shakes her head. “No wonder she doesn’t want to leave.”

 

“I’m not sure that’s entirely -“

 

“Really?!” Swan appears in the living room doorway, face creased in anger and hands firm on hips. “Date night? A bit of warning might have been nice.”

 

Killian winces.

 

“It isn’t -“

 

“Oh oh,” Swan holds her hands up in the air and shakes her head. “Don’t let me stop you after all it’s - oh, wait, no. I take that back.  _ No sex in my house _ .  _ Ever. _ ”

 

Killian fishes furiously for a reply but before he can offer more than a pleading gesture, Belle speaks.

 

“Hello, Swan. Or should I call you Emma?”

 

Both Swan and Killian stop and stare at her, jaws hanging open.

 

“That is your name, isn’t it?” Belle says gently. “Emma Swan?”

 

“Emma Swan,” Killian half whispers, the words soft against his lips. “Emma.”

 

“Can you -“ He sees the way Swan -  _ Emma’s - _ throat works as she swallows. “Can you see me?”

 

“I -“ Belle reaches out a hand in Swan’s direction and they both watch as her fingers brush up against, and then through, her jacket. Swan shudders and Belle snaps her arm back to her side. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “Truly. This must be so very awful for you.”

 

“I’ve lived through worse,” Emma says wryly, smiling slightly as Killian scoffs. “So you can? See me I mean?”

 

“Not really,” Belle admits, “not the way Killian sees you. You must have some sort of - connection. I’ve never - this is unique, a real first.”

 

Belle bounces slightly on her toes, clearly thrumming with excitement, and Emma sighs.

 

“Wonderful. Just what I needed. Not only am I dead but I’m  _ extra specially  _ dead.”

 

“Could be worse,” Killian says cheerfully. 

 

“Could it?”

 

“Wait!” Belle throws her arms out to the sides and scrunches her eyes shut. “There’s something wrong here.”

 

“Really? I’d never have guessed,” mutters Emma, but Belle shushes her quickly.

 

“There’s an energy here all right - something dark and terrible. But it isn’t Emma. It’s -” Belle opens her eyes, and turns them on Killian. “It’s you.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Oh,” Emma folds her arms and grins at him. “This ought to be good.”

 

“No! No, it’s - it’s awful.” Belle shakes her head. “Your aura is - ”

 

“Your  _ aura _ ,” Emma crows. Killian scowls.

 

“This really isn’t -”

 

“Milah says you have to let go.”

 

“ _ Pardon _ ?”

 

“The woman - the one who died - she was shot? Someone was shot.”

 

“No, she - “

 

“She says let her go. Let it all go, Killian.”

 

“I feel the urge to sing,” Emma says, but Killian can’t quite look at her. He’s too focused on the way Belle’s eyes grow wider and wet. On the way she wrings her hands together, twisting a ring around and around her finger.

 

“You need to go,” she says, pleading this time. “Nothing good will come of this, Killian. You can’t win.”

 

“Can’t win what?” Emma sounds nervous now. He sees her flickering in his peripheral vision. “Is this something to do with me?”

 

“No -”

 

“Yes!” Belle spins to face Emma, forcing her to step back until the coffee table protrudes from her knees. “Emma, you have to wake up.”

 

“Is that a political statement, or?”

 

“You’re not dead - not yet - you  _ must  _ wake up.”

 

“I’m not?”

 

“No. No.” Belle shakes her head. “I should - I should go.”

 

“Hey!” Emma steps forward and grabs for Belle’s shoulder. Her hand passes straight through and she hisses in discomfort. “God damn that’s cold. You can’t just leave!”

 

Part of Killian knows he should step in, should demand answers, demand help, but instead he just watches as Belle shakes her head and Emma growls with frustration.

 

“I’ve already said too much,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

 

She looks from Killian to Emma and back again and offers a half hearted smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Good luck,” she says. “I mean that. Really. Good luck.”

 

But all Killian really hears are the words she doesn’t say.

 

You’re going to need it.

 

\---

 

Belle leaves, brows furrowed and cape wrapped around her slim shoulders as she disappears into the darkening streets.

 

Something about her hunched shoulders makes the hairs stand up at the back of Emma’s neck. Makes her hover between the front door and the sofa where Killian sits, perched on the edge like a man considering jumping, and - 

 

Panics.

 

She’s not dead.

 

She tastes bile, sways, sees the colour drain from Killian’s face as he stands.

 

She’s not dead, and somehow, somehow, it’s worse.

 

“Hey,” he says, approaching her as though she’s a skittish animal. “Hey it’s okay.”

 

“What part of  _ any  _ of that sounded okay to you?”

 

“She’s just talking nonsense,” he tries, “Swan -“

 

“Emma,” she says, and the word tastes wrong in her mouth. Like a secret she shouldn’t be able to tell. “She says my name’s Emma.”

 

Killian tilts his head and lowers his voice. It makes her want to cry.

 

“And is it?”

 

“I don’t  _ know,”  _ she half shouts. “I don’t know! And if I’m not dead - if I’m not dead Killian, shouldn’t I  _ know _ ?”

 

“If you’re asking me what the rules of these particular circumstances are I’m not sure I’ll be of much help. But -“

 

“But  _ what _ ?”

 

“If what she says is true - if you are alive - then surely this can only be a positive turn of events? You’ll see your boy again.”

 

“My… boy?”

 

Killian closes his eyes, pained, and Emma buried her face in her cold hands.

 

“What the hell am I going to do?”

 

“We.” She looks up, and the pained expression is gone, replaced with a fierce sort of determination that makes his eyes flash and her breath catch. “I promised you, remember?”

 

“Yeah, when you thought you could exorcise me.”

 

“Then let us start afresh.” He grins at her. “Killian Jones. A pleasure to make your acquaintance,  _ Emma.” _

 

He rolls the word around his mouth and a petulant part of her wants to scowl at him. Bite her name from his lips and send him reeling. And she doesn’t know where that came from but she didn’t know her own name until she heard it from his mouth and isn’t  _ that _ just a turn up for the books.

 

“Truly,” he says, and holds out his hand. She stares at it for a moment, mind whirring, before she shakes her head.

 

“Not much point in that,” she says glumly. 

 

Killian wriggles his fingers, smiling that little lop sided smile.

 

“Live a little?”

 

“Rude.”

 

He sighs and takes a step closer.

 

“We  _ will _ figure this out,” he says solemnly. “You and I - for whatever reason - we are rather alike. Lost souls you might say.”

 

_ “You  _ might.”

 

“Aye, and I do. But two heads are better than one. And you can’t exactly put pen to paper in your condition.”

 

Emma narrows her eyes. 

 

“So what exactly are you suggesting?”

 

“We’re going to fix this,” he says. “Together. Deal?”

 

Emma lifts her own hand to hover above his. “Deal.”

 

He leans down and drops a kiss to her palm, and in the shock she almost doesn’t notice - 

 

It’s warm.


End file.
